


Stages of Touch: Devotion

by autoschediastic



Series: Stages of Touch [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Living Together, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: Jaskier wants to spend a warm, cozy winter together. Geralt does too. Neither gets exactly what they want... until they do.So much of Geralt’s life is blood and pain, sorrow and stench, death and disease. Jaskier wanted to give him a good long break from all of that, heap him in comforts and indulgences, so maybe….Maybe the next time he’s alone on the road, wallowing in guilt because no matter how hard he tries he’ll never be able to live up to the frankly unreasonable expectations he’s shackled himself with, maybe then he’d remember this winter and how deeply he’s cherished.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Stages of Touch [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670053
Comments: 46
Kudos: 592





	Stages of Touch: Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Please love endlessly [katherine_tag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag) for enabling, refining, and generally putting up with my nonsense. 
> 
> This is a mix of Netflix, game, and book canon cherry-picked for my own enjoyment. 
> 
> Enjoy the FINALLY LOVERS conclusion to my not-friends to fuckbuddies to lovers self-indulgent feels fest.

*

“Oh yes,” Jaskier says, “oh yes _please_ ,” and hitches his bare knees higher around Geralt’s waist. His fine trousers drag in the dirt, dangling from one ankle. Bark bites into his lower back. He couldn’t care less about either. Geralt’s road-roughened hands are on his ass, searching fingers slicked by the come already leaking from the tenderest part of him. His entire world has narrowed down to where they touch, the thick earthy smell of sex and the bone-deep ache of his own arousal. He’s so close, so very close, his cock caught between them rubbing deliciously against Geralt’s hard, hairy belly.

“Where do you go every fucking winter,” Jaskier groans, his head falling back as Geralt presses leisurely, open-mouthed kisses to his neck. “No. Wait. I don’t care. Just _stop_.”

Geralt eases back with a shallow grunt. Marks of Jaskier’s frantic desire are all over him, his coarse hair wild and loose, his eyes dark, lips bitten red, shoulders scored by blunt nails. They usually aren’t _this_ bad after some time apart; Geralt tends toward a more gentle kind of lovemaking even when he’s thrusting so deep and hard Jaskier would scream in delirious joy if only he had the breath for it. 

Idly, he wonders exactly how they came to be fucking against a tree when there’s plenty of soft grount to be had. Most likely his doing, though he’ll be damned if he can remember it. Regardless of where or how or even why, Geralt has no business suddenly _not_ kissing him, or fingering him, or doing anything at all that isn’t specifically meant to make him come right the fuck now. He thumps an angry, impatient fist into Geralt’s shoulder. 

Geralt growls as if he’s the one confused by this turn of events.

“What are you _doing_?” Jaskier hisses.

Reasonably and barely out of breath, Geralt says, “You said stop.”

“Not stop _this_. Stop that!”

Geralt’s grip switches from ass to hips, his gasped _no, no, no_ ignored. His feet hit the ground before he thinks to catch them. “Make sense, bard.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier whines. “My life has been a wasted desert without you. My bed so cold, my songs unsung—”

“Your cock untouched,” Geralt adds, full of doubt.

“For all intents and purposes, yes!” 

In truth, Jaskier had spent a very comfortable winter in Oxenfurt, his bed quite warm and his cock well occupied. Geralt’s reputation isn’t the only one growing day by day, fed by a near constant string of ballads and stories only slightly embellished. 

But as winter melted into spring, Jaskier’s songs began to feel stale. His creative fields were lying fallow for too long, stricken by drought and left barren. His soul longed for distant horizons and open roads, unknown lands and new adventures. He needed so badly for Geralt to plough some life back into him. 

“You’ve ruined me,” Jaskier declares. “I’ve lived on scraps and watery soups with only sweet memories of delights beyond imagination to sustain me. Nothing but old wrinkly turnips all winter, Geralt! _Turnips_.”

“Hm, Geralt says, mouth downturned in deep thought. “Now you want meat.”

Taken aback, Jaskier can only stare. Geralt watches him gravely. 

Laughter bubbles in Jaskier’s throat. Not a single twitch betrays Geralt, his face as still as carved stone. But his eyes, his lovely eyes are shining with a hidden smile. 

“That was _terrible_ ,” Jaskier gasps, giving into giddy laughter as he jumps into Geralt’s arms. Geralt catches him easily and keeps their balance with a quick half-step back. Jaskier’s appreciated that move from afar countless times before; it's ridiculously sexy to feel in his arms the tight control of flexed muscle. 

“Put me down somewhere soft,” he says against Geralt’s lips, shivering as the tingling warmth of magic buried in Geralt’s skin surges at the touch of his own. “And put your cock in me again.”

Geralt looses a groan and drops smoothly to his knees in the springy grass. His strength is as dizzying and familiar as the pleasure sparked along Jaskier’s nerves. They’ve fucked every which way more times than he can count for years now and the thrill of it has only grown. The grass stains will be hell to get out of his doublet, and he really does wish Geralt had taken a moment to at least open his shirt along with his trousers, but he won’t complain. No, it’ll be much more fun to brag about Geralt’s impatience later. 

Pressed flat on his back beneath Geralt’s weight, his hands push into the back of Geralt’s loose trousers, squeezing in delight. He bites his lip and inches his fingers closer to that wonderful soft heat, strokes lightly over the crack of Geralt’s ass.

Geralt drops to his elbows, caging Jaskier in. His cock is wedged deliciously against Jaskier’s hole already fucked loose and sensitive. The arch of his back sharpens. The sound he makes as Jaskier’s fingers slip between the cheeks of his ass to rub firmly at his hole is the most perfect sound in all the Spheres, so shameless and free. 

“That’s not what you just asked for,” Geralt says, hips rocking slowly between the pressure of fingers so close to breaching him and his cock so close to doing the same to Jaskier. 

“Maybe I changed my mind,” says Jaskier imperiously. “You’re taking too long.”

Grumbling under his breath, Geralt reaches back to seize Jaskier’s hand, yanking it up to crudely spit on his fingers. “Put those in me,” he orders, “and I’ll put this in you.”

Jaskier shivers in wicked glee. “I adore when you talk dirty to me, my love. Say it again.”

Geralt grazes the shell of Jaskier’s ear with his teeth. “Fuck me if you want me to fuck you.”

Dizzy with pleasure, Jaskier rubs spit-wet fingers over Geralt’s hole, presses oh so gently against tight muscle. The head of Geralt’s cock nudges into him in return like a filthy call-and-answer sung with bodies instead of voices. He teases himself as much as Geralt by easing back, barely pushing in again until the soft heat clutching at his fingertips is too much to resist. His two fingers sink all the way to the first knuckle at the same time Geralt pushes deep inside him. The sweetest agony courses through every fibre of his being as Geralt keeps going, wedging him wide open and filled so very full he can hardly breathe. He digs his knuckles even harder against Geralt stretched around his fingers and somehow the pressure inside him builds. 

He doesn’t know which one of them relents first—if it’s him finger-fucking Geralt or Geralt fucking him in earnest—and sets the other off. Any reason he had to care is quickly forgotten as they push and shove at each other, _into_ each other, as desperately as they’d fucked against that poor, unsuspecting tree.

Some depraved corner of Jaskier’s mind giddily notices when the slide of Geralt’s cock becomes wetter with fresh heat. His fingers hooked and pulling on Geralt’s rim and the noise it wrenches free from the pit of Geralt’s stomach drives him gasping over the edge. Bliss washes over and through him and carries him away on a flash of midday stars. Stars that take a long, long time to fade with Geralt still buried thick inside him and weighing heavily on his cock caught messily between them. 

Muscles give out one at a time as Jaskier’s arms and legs fall limply to the ground. Laughing breathlessly, he wriggles numb toes and fingers. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Hold me tighter and never let me go.”

Scrubbing hair out of his face against Jaskier’s clothes, Geralt just grunts.

“Tighter!” Jaskier cries.

Geralt huffs but gathers Jaskier closer, rolling to the side to crush him a little less. “I didn’t miss you,” he rumbles.

“Liar.”

Soon the spring air will be too cold, even cuddled against Geralt’s warmth. Aches will make themselves known and the press of Geralt’s cock and the admirable mess they’ve made of him both inside and out will turn unpleasant. Until that happens, though, he dozes lightly to the steady slow beat of Geralt’s heart. The tempo is perfect for a half-imagined tune that’s escaped him for weeks now. 

“You know I meant what I said earlier,” Jaskier says drowsily, interrupting his absent humming. “We could winter together. I’ve got a little house west of the university, not much room, but you’d have access to the grounds. Lots of space there.”

“Why?”

“To do whatever things you do to maintain that lovely figure of yours. Scale walls with your bare hands and a dagger in your teeth,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I don’t know. You’re the witcher.”

Geralt snorts. “Why winter together, bard.”

“Oh. Well.” Jaskier nuzzles into the slant of Geralt’s collarbone. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to have somewhere warm and safe to spend it? You wouldn’t have to live on dried meat and stringy rabbits, and who knows, if you’re bored a job might come up.” He sniggers. “As if you’d get tired of beer and sex.”

Geralt makes a soft considering noise and abruptly rolls to his feet. Jaskier squeaks at the sudden rush of cold. “Time to go,” Geralt says, smirking. 

“Brute,” Jaskier grumbles, and shivers. He clambers to his feet and uses the corner of the shirt Geralt’s still wearing to wipe his stomach. “Pish, it’s dirty anyway," he says, grinning and waving away Geralt’s disgruntled snort.

*

Spring becomes summer passes into fall at the usual pace; tracking the seasons is far easier for Geralt than the years. He winters again at Kaer Morhen with only Eskel for company. Nothing in particular had kept the others away, it just happened that way at times. The snows are harsh and the keep seems colder than usual despite the fires kept burning at all hours.

The wind howls through the fallen ramparts. “Bad winter,” Eskel says, and they spend the rest of it bunked together in Vesemir’s rooms near the kitchen, ignoring the lonely mountains.

He finds Jaskier late in the following spring, and all too soon the summer begins to wane. Before the trees turn fully in Cintra, Jaskier casually drops last year’s offer into conversation. It feels like only weeks since the previous desolate winter, not months. More and more he understands the surprised look on Vesemir’s face when another decade passes.

It’s easy to map out the weeks and months following the day Jaskier first sauntered into his life. Even the first few years have enough landmarks to tell one from another. After that, not so much. It doesn’t help that Jaskier looks much the same sitting in this backwoods tavern now as he did in Posada. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier leans over the crooked table to wave his hand in front of Geralt’s face. “What’s happening in there?”

Thirty, Geralt thinks. Thirty-two? No. Jaskier turns thirty-four this year. “Alright.”

“What—” Jaskier’s face brightens. “Really? You’re not pulling my leg? Right, no. Never mind. I’ve got a stockpile of Toussaint five-year red with our names on it.” He catapults himself from the bench, snatching up his lute and striking a loud chord. “Good people!” he shouts.

Geralt finishes his beer, then drags Jaskier’s across the table as a stomping tempo begins. Whatever kind of winter he just signed up for, it couldn't be much worse than the last. 

He strongly reconsiders the decision during the first week of living with Jaskier in Oxenfurt as opposed to travelling in close quarters. On the road, Jaskier is relatively tidy. He spreads his things out whenever they stay somewhere longer than a night but gathers them up again quickly enough. 

In his own home he’s a _slob_.

There’s a shirt dropped onto Geralt’s boots, another hanging from his steel sword, mismatched trousers and doublets draped over chests, tables, chairs, _pots_. The last Jaskier claims is to steam out a stain. Geralt snatches it up, grunts, and treats it with a paste from his satchel instead. Then he uses the pot for its intended purpose and brews a tea to block the stomach-turning conglomeration of scents emanating from the closet at the very back of the house where Jaskier grumpily stored an apothecary's worth of pompously-named oils after Geralt cursed him out for _trying_ to give him a headache. 

Twenty-three wine goblets nicked from taverns and eateries across the city are strewn in an obvious path from the kitchen to the bedroom, several with half a mouthful of wine left stagnating at the bottom. Most of the food ends up in the oddly-shaped sitting area where Jaskier writes and composes—going to the kitchen is apparently too much of an interruption, never mind that for anything more substantial than cheese, bread, or fruit he’ll walk fifteen minutes across the campus to the dining hall. The kitchen hadn't been used for cooking in at least half a dozen years. 

Wedged between Jaskier's creative nook and the bedroom is another small room dedicated to a bath only large enough to stand in; when Geralt does so, he can almost touch the opposite walls with his elbows. Filling the tub is the same routine as elsewhere, heating the water in the kitchen and bedroom hearths, then lugging it in pot by pot, but he does like the drainage system. A plug about halfway up the side of the tub matches up with a removable stone in the floor that connects to a series of tunnels beneath the city and drains into the river. Twin handles bolted into the tub help to tip it once the water level drops below the plug. 

Waste and other such things can be dumped the same way, though Geralt quickly learned not to do so unless it’s before emptying the bath. It seems most people do the same, if not in their own homes than in a sort of community drain, and rather than form a pall of shit, piss, and rot above the city, the river carries it away.

By far this is Geralt’s favourite out of the few things to recommend Oxenfurt above cities like it. The others are the plentiful food, good beer, and despite it all, Jaskier’s company. 

“Fusspot,” Jaskier says, pulling on one of the billowing shirts he likes to sleep in. It hits about mid-thigh, shows tantalizing flashes of skin as he flounces about in it, and reminds Geralt without fail of him sitting bare-assed on a fur asking to be taken to bed. “It’s only wine. It isn’t going to _smell_.”

Already beneath the blankets and propped up on the dozens of pillows Jaskier hoards, Geralt throws an arm over his eyes. The night before Jaskier dragged him to some sort of party thrown by people far more fussy than he and with obviously too much time on their overly-pampered hands. There were rules for everything from what he was allowed to eat right away and what must absolutely not be touched until some arbitrary hour, despite it all being laid out at the same time, to how many drinks of each type he was permitted before someone started whispering about Jaskier’s handsome yet slow-witted companion.

He threw foolish protocol aside at that point and seized an ale pitcher from a startled servant. Jaskier laughed uproariously, drunk enough to declare it endearing while the woman on his arm tittered anxiously. He thankfully shushed and shooed her away to help Geralt drain the pitcher, his bright eyes fond. 

The bed dips as Jaskier sits facing him, one leg tucked under himself and the other swinging idly over the edge. Plush mattresses and smokeless oil lamps are two more things Geralt likes about this winter.

“You’re grumpy tonight.”

It’s week three of wintering with Jaskier and still he debates the wisdom of staying. The list of reasons why he shouldn’t is as long as his arm, but the list of reasons he wants to is longer than his leg.

“City life wearing you out already, darling witcher?” Jaskier presses, nudging his thigh with an elbow. “Greybeards get together at Totting’s every other day to play cards and grouse about the weather, if you need a break.”

“Weather’s fine,” Geralt grunts. Snows are few and far between, and any that falls melts quickly in the city's concentrated heat. 

“It is, isn’t it,” Jaskier sighs dreamily. He flops sideways across Geralt’s legs, plucking at the embroidery on the fancy topsheet. “You don’t _have_ to come with me next week if you don’t want to.”

“Good. I don’t want to.”

“Now how hard was that? Be a dear and sew my green trousers for me. The ones with the silvery threading.”

Geralt lifts his arm just enough to peer down his nose at Jaskier, who smiles winsomely and kicks his feet in the air. 

“Please,” he wheedles. “Your stitching is so much prettier than mine. I’ll oil your armour for you! Yes, properly. I promise to spend at least an— _two_ hours on it.” He ducks his head at Geralt’s silence. “Two and a half?”

Sighing, Geralt drops his arm to his side. He’ll sew Jaskier’s silly trousers, and probably fix anything else the bard drops into his lap. “Did you invite me here to be your woman for the winter?”

Jaskier waves a hand and scoffs, “Nonsense. I want you to do all the manly things, too. Did you fix the sticky flue in the kitchen?”

He did, if only to be able to reliably use the damn thing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jaskier goes on, idly tracing a line of embroidery that ends in a complicated flourish directly above Geralt’s groin. “No, not just for the fixing and the fucking,” he adds, and rolls his eyes. “Is it so hard to believe I worried about you out there dug into some dank hole in the ground with a blizzard roaring overhead and nothing but some furs and a few twigs to keep you warm?”

Half a dozen years into Geralt's journey on the Path that very thing happened. He’d gotten cocky, further delaying his return to the mountain year after year until it caught and trapped him for almost two weeks. The mistake cost him his first Roach. He cried tears that froze with the blood in his beard when he’d been forced to eat her raw carcass or starve. Every mare is Roach in her honour and he’s never lost another before their time. 

He looks at Jaskier and thinks about telling him the story. He’s never told anyone before. Not even when he stumbled half-dead into the keep on foot with nothing left but his swords and whatever potions he could cram into his pockets and fell into Vessemir’s arms.

It’s probably not a good time for it. Jaskier’s left off tracing the embroidery and is following the soft rise of Geralt’s cock beneath the blankets. 

Maybe he could tell Jaskier about Kaer Morhen instead. Not his training or the trials, and not the boys buried deep underground or the witchers where they fell. Not the crumbling towers or jagged-toothed walls, either. But maybe about the warmth of the stables kept in good repair, how there’s a horseshoe mounted above Roach’s stall for each of her predecessors, or maybe the scrolls so carefully preserved that crackle when they’re rolled and smell of witchers Geralt’s only met while reading them. The tapestries lining the walls in his room, some threadbare and faded and as old as the keep itself, others almost too bright to be real brought back from the other side of the Blue Mountains. 

The mattress shifts again as Jaskier gets to his knees, crawls up the length of Geralt’s body to settle in his lap, arms draped around his neck. The hem of Jaskier’s shirt is caught on his hardening cock, his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks just beginning to pinken. “A silver for your thoughts,” Jaskier says.

“Expensive,” Geralt replies with a hum.

“I’d give a bar of gold for each and every one of them,” says Jaskier, his mouth soft against the curve of Geralt’s jaw. “An emerald for your wishes, a ruby for your desires. Diamonds for your kisses.”

Geralt tilts his face to Jaskier’s, their lips a breath from touching. “Where are you getting all these riches?”

“Oh, here and there,” Jaskier says vaguely like maybe he’s got a story of his own to share. But his hands are greedy on Geralt’s chest, his mouth is more insistent than soft, and the Chaos that doesn’t entirely settle down any more stretches and stirs alongside Geralt’s cock. It’s too late for stories now. 

Besides, nights like these are near the top of Geralt’s list of things he likes and reasons to stay. Caught up in Jaskier's kisses it’s easier to forget these nights are also why he shouldn't.

*

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Jaskier grumbles into Radella’s magnificent tits. “He mopes about as sullen as a boy left in the barn on midsummer’s eve. I picked up all the dishes and gave away almost all my oils, I even put away all the clothes. All of them! _Including_ his.” He heaves a sigh as she pets his hair. “I’m beginning to think he’d rather be stuck on an iceberg off the coast of Poviss than spend another day with me.”

“Have you taken him to The Thorny Rosebud?” Radella asks, bless her kind soul. “There’s always something interesting to be found there.”

Lowering his voice to a gruff mimicry of Geralt’s, he says, “I’ve seen it all before, bard. Go without me.”

“I doubt he’s seen—”

“A dozen times or more already,” Jaskier laments. “I offered to take him everywhere, show him everything, and aside from a few parties and surprisingly a lecture on— on—” He waves a frustrated hand and upsets the empty wine goblets on the table. “I don’t _know_ what the lecture was on because he didn’t _invite_ me. But other than that all he does is pose menacingly shirtless with his sword on the green and make a weekly circuit of every herbalist, alchemist, and apothecary in the city. He wouldn’t even come with me to Little Bells last night.”

“Well, he doesn’t really sound like he’d enjoy dancing.” When Jaskier just flops even heavier against her, she blows out a breath and pokes him into sitting up. She earnestly takes his hands in both of hers. “Maybe you should invite him to something you know he likes, even if you don’t. When was the last time he went outside the city?”

“A while, I guess,” he hedges. So much of Geralt’s life is blood and pain, sorrow and stench, death and disease. Jaskier wanted to give him a good long break from all of that, heap him in comforts and indulgences, so maybe….

Maybe the next time he’s alone on the road, wallowing in guilt because no matter how hard he tries he’ll never be able to live up to the frankly unreasonable expectations he’s shackled himself with, maybe then he’d remember this winter and how deeply he’s cherished. 

After all, Jaskier willingly gave up an excruciatingly costly vial of orris root oil. That he obtained it in the first place to use as a base for soap for Geralt’s hair is beside the point; he could’ve used it for _himself_. 

Except that the smell shrunk Geralt’s pupils down to tiny slits of pain, and there isn't much point in smelling nice for a lover if it makes them cry off with a headache. 

“You’re right, of course,” Jaskier says despondently. “I’ve been bending over backwards and twisting myself into pretzels trying to _make_ him have a good time, completely ignoring what’s right in front of my face. I hope it’s not too late.”

Radella smiles radiantly. “You’re the best of friends, it’s not too late. Just remember: Fewer gymnastics, more listening.”

Definitely not fewer _actual_ gymnastics, Geralt’s much too impressed by his flexibility to give that up. But mental gymnastics, she’s right about those.

He’ll take Geralt to a little spot in Thinker’s Park during Yaromir’s upcoming art extravaganza—a good chunk of the city will be in or around the exhibit, practically guaranteeing they’ll have the park all to themselves. They’ll sit and talk and share something good to eat, the air will be free of city sounds and smells, and Geralt can finally relax. The perfect solution.

*

It’s not perfect.

It is, in fact, a disaster. 

First of all, Geralt doesn’t want to go. 

Jaskier returns home the day of the exhibit to find he’s pushed all of the lovely furniture up against the sitting room walls to clear a space in which he's doing some sort of slow-motion fight dance, which is lovely to look at, but he stuffed all of Jaskier’s papers into the desk supposedly to keep them safe—from _what_ , Jaskier would like to know, the shallow breeze of his foot sailing by?—and made a terrible mess of them instead.

“Could you perhaps finish this tomorrow?” Jaskier asks, incredibly conscious of the time. The plan requires them to be firmly ensconced in a private corner of the west arcade before sunset. He scouted it late last week and the view over the harbour is spectacular. 

Geralt turns on the ball of his bare foot, arms in position as if he’s holding a sword in his empty hands. “No. It has to be done in three hours without pause.”

“Three _hours_?” Jaskier squeaks. Sunlight catches the fine sheen of sweat on Geralt’s back as he turns again, arms rising up and separating gracefully. Jaskier’s mouth goes a little wet at the sight. He’s ridiculously, unfairly beautiful, and if Jaskier could draw worth a damn the walls would be plastered with nude studies. 

The pornographic ones he’d keep in a book all to himself. 

Another flash of light on skin jerks Jaskier’s attention back to the sun already barely hanging above the horizon. It’ll be long dark by the time Geralt’s done.

“I realize there’s not a lot of opportunity to do whatever it is you’re doing for most of the year, but I’d really _really_ like you to come with me now.” He holds up the basket of fresh treats he charmed Adger into making before he closed the bakery for the evening. “It’s not really something that can wait.”

Geralt barely flicks him a glance. “Food can wait.”

“It’s not just _food_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says, stomping his foot. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity”— only a slight exaggeration—”and I’m going to be very upset to miss it.”

“So don’t,” Geralt says in an annoyed rumble. “Go.”

“There’s no point in going by myself!”

Geralt holds his position for a moment more, then drops out of it with a growl. “I’m _busy_.” 

“Well, fine! Here!” Furious, Jaskier marches up to Geralt and drops the basket right on top of his foot. All the sweet breads and tarts and the odd-smelling pastry twists that are from somewhere off the coast of Nilfgaard—which he spent three days trying to find a recipe for because Geralt described it once using more words than he’d spoken in the last _month_ —spill out across the floor in a cloud of powdered sugar and cinnamon. He snatches up a broken chunk of pastry and jabs it at Geralt’s face. “I’ll take this! You enjoy the rest whenever you’re done your very important _whatever_!”

Twenty minutes later he’s huddled beneath the arcade with angry tears and icing smeared all over his hands.

“It’s stupid,” he tells the pigeon pecking brazenly at the crumbs around his feet. “It was just such a good idea. I was going to tell him about the contract across the river in Acorn Bay. Only a few drowners and even less pay, but it would’ve been a nice couple of days away.” Morosely he plucks at a tiny winter weed struggling up through the cracked stones. “Guess I can still tell him about the job. I’ll just… stay home for it.”

The pigeon stops pecking, cocking its head curiously. It coos and Jaskier gives a watery laugh. “You’re a lot like him, y’know. And he eats off the ground too.”

Blinking once, the pigeon goes back to searching for crumbs. 

“I probably shouldn’t go back yet,” Jaskier says, wiping his fingers off in the moss. He sniffs a few times and pats at his pockets. “Got a bit of money. Time for a drink. Thanks for listening, pigeon. You’re better at that than he is.”

One drink leads to two, which leads to a third and a sympathetic widower named Seabert. They trade increasingly pathetic stories about the best of intentions and the worst of outcomes, crying into each other’s beers like comrades before the gallows. The tavern keeper kicks them into the street when the coin runs out, and there they sit huddled together over an anemic little fire. At some point they fall asleep listing to the side like beached ships until one of them snorts and they both wake with a jolt. They stare at each other for a beat before Seabert fishes out yet another flask of homebrew, and from there the cycle begins anew. 

By dawn Jaskier’s ass is as numb as his toes. He squints at the sun peeking over the red rooftops. No doubt Geralt’s awake already doing push-ups in his underwear. He sighs. He does so love watching Geralt do push-ups in his underwear.

“I hear ya, m’boy,” Seabert says in the gravelly rasp of a night in the bottle, and claps him on the shoulder. “Seems no matter what you do there’s another morning come ‘round again.”

“Truer words never spoken,” Jaskier says, scrubbing roughly at his crusty face. “Truer words.”

They stare into the dawn until the barkeep from last night walks by shaking his head. With a lot of clutching at each other for balance and much groaning they manage to get to their feet, and then they stand propped against a wall with their heads between their knees trying not to throw up between rueful laughs. 

Jaskier finally rights himself, carefully holding his aching head in place on his shoulders. “You’re a good man, Seabert. When I’m able to see straight again I’ll pen the most fabulous drinking ditty you’ll ever hear in honour of tonight.”

“I look forward to hearing it when m’ears aren’t ringing,” Seabert says in reply, which sends them into gales of foolish laughter. 

A gaggle of screaming hens suddenly come fluttering around the corner. Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut as he scrambles out of the way, staring wide-eyed at the rooster that barrels after them. It’s infinitely funnier than anything else he’s laughed at in the last eleven hours but all he can do is stare shell-shocked at the few feathers left drifting in their wake.

Beside him, Seabert does the same. 

“I… I think that’s our cue,” Jaskier says dumbly. Mute, Seabert simply nods. They clasp arms, give each other a pat on the back, and set off in opposite directions.

When Jaskier makes it home, Geralt and his swords are gone.

*

Geralt crouches in the brackish water of the Pontar Delta. Tracks belonging to a dozen or more drowners crisscross the shallows, old enough that he can’t catch a scent through the rotten egg smell of the estuary itself. The wind doesn’t carry a trace of a nearby nest either.

“Hm,” says Geralt, rubbing at his chin. He draws a breath to speak but lets it out again soundlessly. There’s no one to hear him.

The note had shown up at Jaskier’s door the night before last, handed over by a thin young man who doffed his cap and took off at a sprint before Geralt could blink. He wouldn’t have read it except it had no name, only a number, and was folded over just once without a seal. 

Hours later without sign of Jaskier, he packed his satchel with a few of the breads he had carefully picked up and wrapped in cloths, checked his stores, and took up his swords. He stopped by the university stables to tell Roach he’d be back in a few days. He almost asked her to not let Jaskier follow, but he wouldn’t be gone long enough for Jaskier to miss him and there wasn’t much point to ruining his winter any more than he had already. He’d probably return before the bard even thought to check in on her anyway. 

It would’ve been smarter to wait until morning to head out. But after Jaskier’s exit he had even less desire than usual to wake only to find once again Jaskier decided to spend the night elsewhere. 

“You’re too old for this shit,” he tells himself, and smacks the mud off his gloves. 

He spends the day combing the shoreline for any signs of a nest, then as the tide flows out, ventures across the marshy landbars. Along the way he breaks off pieces of a fruit and nut tart, reasoning that he needs to eat and why let it go to waste. Guilt honestly doesn’t make the taste any less delicious. 

As evening closes in he turns back towards the shore. Wistfully he wishes he’d taken Roach after all if only to find something more than a bare patch of ground waiting for him. Most of the journey had been by barge, though, and he couldn’t risk her needlessly in this sort of terrain. 

He finds a suitable hollow in short order and settles in for the night. With so many cities clustered nearby he doesn’t need a fire for light but he sets one more for the sound of it crackling and popping than its heat. 

In the morning he takes up the search again. That night he returns to Acorn Bay and the contact he met when he first arrived, a reedy man named Grock. 

“There’s no nest in that direction,” he reports over lukewarm ale. “There are traces, but drowners don’t travel far.”

“What’s that mean?” Grock asks, scribbling furiously. His desk is piled high with ledgers and maps, and what looks like building plans. 

“Either the nest is further east towards Foam or it’s right here.”

Grock’s pen stills. He looks up slowly. “Here?”

“Somewhere damp and foul. If it had rats before it won’t now. Other animals will avoid it as well.”

“Is that…” Grock scratches his throat with the butt of the pen. “Usual? To find them so close?”

Geralt puts out the flat of his hand and tilts it back and forth.

“You’re not a very forthcoming sort of fellow,” Grock says, frowning. 

“Funny,” Geralt drawls, “I would say the same about you.”

Grock curses and throws down the pen. Slumping back in his creaking chair, he scrubs both hands over his face. “I told that fool, I _told_ him—”

“Tell me.”

With a deep sigh, Grock fetches more ale. “Malatius is my partner in this venture, and sadly the only one of us with pockets deep enough to fund it. Don’t misunderstand me, he’s not a malicious man. He just isn’t very…” Sighing again, Grock takes a long drink. “Have you ever met a man so dazzled by his own brilliance he’s blind to any number of other less fortunate qualities he might possess?”

Geralt snorts, amused. “I have.”

“Malatius doesn’t _have_ any other qualities.”

“...ah.”

Digging through the piles of maps, Grock frees one and slides it across the desk. It’s an impressively detailed rendering of the Pontar Delta from Foam to Novigrad with dozens of markings which don’t tell Geralt much more than whoever made them is impressively thorough. Grock points to a succession of three on the south bank near a heavily wooded area. 

“All the lumber we could possibly need is right here,” Grock explains, “it’s only a matter of harvesting and seasoning it. Bringing in Novigrad’s guildsmen would’ve been our best course of action since they have the skill and space to manage it.”

“Too expensive?”

“Too _slow_. Malatius doesn’t see why we’d have to wait over a year before we can even begin building the fleet. He brought in some Oxenfurt scholars and they devised a scheme to season the lumber in about a third of the time the guildsmen would need.” Grock points to the plans. “So first we have to build this.” 

Geralt glances down at it, eyebrows drawn tightly together. “What does this have to do with drowners?”

Grock jabs at the air with a finger. “That’s what I’d like to know!”

Frown deepening, Geralt considers the likelihood of a connection. Mages and alchemists have experimented with creatures of the Conjunction for centuries; witchers are only one example of their more successful ventures. Something as mundane as seasoning wood doesn’t seem like it would catch the interest of sorcerers even if there’s a hefty profit to be made. Which is not to say they’re not above such petty concerns, only that immortality and eternal youth tends to change perspectives and priorities. 

“Give me the scholars’ names,” says Geralt.

*

Gone. Everything is gone.

Jaskier sits on the edge of his bed—his made bed, because Geralt straightens sheets and fluffs pillows every morning—and looks blankly at the wall. He searched every last inch of the house for a trace of Geralt’s things, some hint that the witcher intends to return. The small drying line strung between his window and a neighbour’s had been the last place he looked; if he found the line bare, the big towel Geralt so obviously favoured not pinned to freshen in the sun, he would have his answer. 

The towel is folded neatly beside the others. Outside, the sun is setting.

At first he tries to be mad. How _dare_ Geralt simply up and leave without a word? Had he no courtesy at all? A fool would say no, of course he doesn’t—he’s a witcher, what use for manners did a witcher have? A fool would ask what more could be expected, and say it’s better this way. They’ll meet again in the spring as they have for a dozen years, carry on as if all is well for as far as Geralt’s concerned there’s no reason for it to be anything else.

Jaskier wishes he were a fool. Then he could believe the lies people tell. He could pretend he hadn’t hurt his most beloved friend so deeply that facing the harsh winter alone and penniless was preferable to one more night in his company. And over something so stupid as a few godforsaken pieces of _bread_.

His eyes burn. His heart is sore. But try as he might the tears refuse to come. Poetic justice, he thinks—he’d be crying over his own loss because he’s a bastard swine that even now cares more for himself than the man he’s so profoundly wronged.

The moon shines brightly in the cloudless sky and still he sits at the edge of the bed they shared, craving every single one of the bottles of wine stacked so neatly in the corner of the sitting room Geralt put to rights before leaving.

When he finds the will to stand, he walks on stiff, aching legs. He presses his face into Geralt’s towel and finally, _finally_ , he cries.

It doesn’t smell like Geralt at all.

*

Back in Oxenfurt, Geralt finds the scholars in a plush room two floors up from the lecture halls. One is as rotund as the overstuffed chairs gathered around an intricately-carved table, one is average in every way possible, and the last two—who might be brothers from the resemblance—could both fit into the same chair if there was a shortage. All four blink up at him owlishly as he strides in.

“Malatius and Grock,” Geralt says.

“Son of a pisser,” the average one says, lightly accented. “I _knew_ this would bite us in our just deserts. The Spheres are not a toy!”

“Be _quiet_ , Tostig,” hisses one of the maybe-brothers. 

“Bah and hooey,” the round one says, waving a half-full wine goblet. “We didn’t do anything wrong. No man can stand in the way of progress.” He squints up at Geralt. “Nor mutant. Good day, sir.”

Geralt folds his arms and nods briefly. “Tell me where the drowners are and I won’t tell the Brotherhood about your side project.”

Tostig pales—only averagely, though. He could be much, much paler. 

“You don’t expect us to _pay_ you for it, do you?” asks the round one. 

Geralt lifts a brow.

“Not on my salary,” mutters the second quite-possibly-brother. 

The scholars exchange a series of glances. Despite the trouble they’ve caused, Geralt finds he actually sort of likes this mismatched group. Neither seems keen to sell the other out, which counts for a lot in his book. No one offers up any excuses or explanations, either—a refreshing change from most he’s caught red-handed. 

“Sorcerers are secretive,” Geralt reminds them, “and don’t appreciate… tourists.”

The first more-than-likely brother sighs. “I don’t think we have a choice. The theory is sound—”

“—but the execution is not,” the other brother finishes. “If we want to pursue it we need someone intimately familiar with the arts, not vaguely acquainted.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Actually….”

“No,” grunts Geralt. “I’m a witcher, not a sorcerer or alchemist.”

“Debatable,” says the round scholar. 

Geralt narrows his eyes and lets a low growl trickle from his lips.

“Fine, fine. I am Wojciech.” Setting aside his goblet, the round one stands. “Please accompany me to my chambers and allow me to provide the information you request.”

Wojciech, in the manner of most learned men, provides far more information than needed. He also asks more questions than he answers, and while his interest seems honest, Geralt wouldn’t have replied to most of them except Wojciech offers an item of his choice from an impressive store of rare ingredients in exchange. 

“And you claimed you weren’t an alchemist,” Wojciech points out jovially. 

“Only within my trade.” 

“Ah, witcher.” Wojciech escorts Geralt all the way to the university’s main gate to prolong the conversation. “Visit again when you’ve finished your grisly business, if it pleases you. I’d much like to speak with you further. Perhaps over crisp ale and a stout cheese?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks ruefully at the warm sparkle in Wojciech’s eyes. If he hadn’t learned better years ago, he’d think the scholar wanted to be friends. Yet Geralt says, “I’m wintering in the city.”

“Oho!” Wojciech claps his plump hands together. “How lucky for the academy! You’re welcome to join us any time. Do you play cards? Tostig has an impressive deck I’ve been trying to decimate for months.”

Before Wojciech can draw him into another tangent, Geralt gives his goodbyes and heads for the bridge. If Grock is as good as his word there’ll be a barge to take Geralt wherever he needs to go along the Pontar. Two more days will see the end of this contract and a heftier payday than anticipated; Grock is as keen to keep on the good side of Novigrad’s guildsmen as the scholars are the Brotherhood’s. 

His first instinct was to refuse—he was a witcher, not a mercenary, and the last thing he wanted was to set any sort of precedent for bribery. But a voice sounding suspiciously like Jaskier’s said it isn’t a bribe if he didn’t demand it in exchange for his silence, it’s in thanks for his discretion and an apology for the trouble. 

It's all just mincing words in his opinion. There’s enough truth there for him to accept it, though. Especially when he thinks of shattered sweet tarts.

In the end it takes two days longer than anticipated to sort the drowner mess out. On the eve of the ninth day since the note’s arrival, he returns to Oxenfurt keen to not leave again for weeks. He’s as much surprised as he isn’t—it was good to get out of the city and away from all the sounds and smells and tight press of humanity for a while. It’s just as good to come home to a soft bed, warm baths, good food, and easy company. He might even stop by to see Wojciech and the others soon.

“You!” someone screeches, scattering the chickens clucking around a nearby pen. “You foul, loathsome creature! What have you done to him?!”

Geralt sighs and turns to face a vaguely familiar red-headed woman bearing down on him like an engine of war. He doesn’t bother asking who or what she’s talking about—she’s already yowling it at the top of her lungs. 

Jaskier’s name brings a cold wave of dread; the word ‘missing’ turns it to solid ice.“Stop shouting. Where did you see him last?”

“The day _you_ vanished on some mysterious errand! He was to play at Yaromir’s that night. Instead Aalis saw him in an alley with a drunkard and that was the last anyone’s clapped eyes on him since! No one answers his door, no lights shine in his windows, no one’s heard him sing or bought him a drink in more than a _week_.” 

Geralt turns on his heel while she’s still talking, heading straight for The Thorny Rosebud. Jaskier has several places around the city he hides out when the demands on his time and self become overwhelming—he hasn’t needed them in years, he said when he pointed them out to Geralt on a lazy afternoon walk, but every now and then he checks to make sure they’re there if he does. 

If he’s not at the Rosebud, Geralt will head to the alcove beneath Guildenstern bridge next. Fondness for those two over the others was distinct in his voice. 

With still no sign of him near the scarred tree in Thinker’s Park, Geralt plots the quickest course to check Jaskier’s remaining hideouts, even the one near the harbour that construction ruined over two years ago just in case. 

He couldn’t have struck out to follow Geralt. He had no reason to be interested in yet more drowners even if he knew about the job, and besides that Geralt had crisscrossed the delta so many times over the last week the chances of them not running into each other were slim to none. If Jaskier had been out there looking for him, he would’ve heard _something_ from _someone_.

Geralt takes to the rooftops in the more crowded areas, breaking into a sprint whenever there’s space. He stalks the halls of the academy for any trace of Jaskier’s scent with no time to be sorry for scaring a knot of young students and sending professors scurrying for classrooms. At one point he spots Tostig from the group of drowner experimenters, who actually stops to ask what’s gone wrong. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, every word dragged scraping from his throat, “the bard, Jaskier.”

“Yes, yes.” Tostig nods rapidly. “I know him. A brilliant musician and accomplished liar.” A quick frown. “No, storyteller, that’s the word. He tells stories.”

“He’s missing.”

Without question Tostig hollers, “The concert hall!” and takes off.

Jaskier isn’t there.

“I will take Gidie and Guarin to search more,” Tostig says. “We will bring him to Lily Lane of the Valley where his home is when we find him.”

Geralt nods. With all the hideouts he knows of eliminated, he checks every ale house, tavern, and brothel he can find. The dance halls next, including the ones most frequented by Jaskier’s self-proclaimed rival Marx when he visits their shared alma mater. He tries the university stables though he doubts very much Jaskier would take Roach and disappear. 

He hasn’t, of course. None of the stablehands have seen him.

Finally, there’s nowhere left to search. Jaskier _couldn’t_ have followed without him realizing it. And if somehow that had happened, there were no dangers on the delta that Jaskier couldn’t handle—it’s too busy an area for even bandits to prosper, especially with the guild-funded patrols out of Novigrad. 

_Novigrad_. The afternoon before the note arrived Jaskier had wanted to go somewhere. He’d been impatient and insistent about the time. A basket of breads and sweets wasn’t practical for any sort of journey unless it was short and maybe via the river. 

The urge to saddle Roach and head for the high road has Geralt halfway back to the stable before a single other thought crosses his mind. Unfortunately when one does, it’s to remind him he’d been viciously annoyed at having his workout interrupted—it had taken days to find the solitude and peace to even consider that particular exercise, and when Jaskier had shown up demanding he drop everything to go to yet another ridiculous party with spoiled brats whispering snidely behind his back, he’d told the bard to fuck off. 

The only person Jaskier could possibly want to see less than him right now would be one in possession of a large sword and an unfaithful wife. 

A lamplighter cuts a wide berth around Geralt, leaving behind a patch of rising darkness. He turns around again, heading for the tiny house he’s been careful not to think of as home. There’s no point to spend money on a room with lodging readily available. 

He’ll go to the Free City in the morning. If Jaskier doesn’t want to see him, that’s fine; he doesn’t have to stay. He’s made enough of a mess already by thinking Jaskier’s invitation to winter together would be any different than the rest of the time they spent in each other’s company.

The small hope he harbours that Tostig’s found Jaskier is snuffed out when he nears the darkened house. It’s never looked so empty and unwelcoming. Disgusted at the hesitation that slows his steps—he _won’t_ waste his money—he jabs the key Jaskier gave him in the lock and barges into the silence. 

The stench hits first; sour sweat, old vomit, stale wine. He widens his pupils and flicks a sign at the hearth in the same movement. He’s not certain what he expected given the smell but it definitely isn’t this. 

Everything aside from the collection of wine Jaskier’s so proud of is exactly as he left it. 

He pricks his ears and takes a cautious sniff at what’s under the fine bouquet of cheap tavern. From the bathroom comes a soft snuffling. He can’t tell much about whatever’s making the noise aside from it’s most likely human, doesn’t smell at all like Jaskier, and is drunk enough to piss wine. 

He’s sure he remembers locking up. It doesn’t much matter now, anyway—his fault or not, the wine is gone and some drunkard is soused in the bathroom. 

Geralt nudges aside the curtain and steps down into the room. Most of the candles are burned down to nubs that won’t catch when he focuses igni at them one after the other, but the couple that do light up combined with the hearthfire and adjusting his eyes again lets him clearly see the body of a naked man slumped in the tub, head lolling on the rim. 

“ _Fuck._ ”

Dropping to his knees, Geralt searches for Jaskier’s pulse; thready, but strong enough he’s not dying of alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t make a sound as Geralt lifts him from the frigid, dirty water. His skin is too smooth under Geralt’s hands, clammy and vaguely spongy.

Geralt grabs a couple of towels to spread out on the bed—they’re softer and more absorbent to lay Jaskier out on. He lights the second hearth and dumps the rest of the towels on the bed, then brings every oil lamp and candle he can find into the bedroom. He doesn’t need the light to see the sickly whitish colour of Jaskier’s skin. He needs heat. 

“You fucking idiot,” Geralt snarls, daubbing gently at Jaskier’s body with a towel, moving his arms and legs to reach every crevice and crease. He barely stirs when Geralt dries between his legs, then his toes, careful not to break waterlogged flesh. “The contract was to kill the drowners, you stupid shit, not become one.”

“S’not very nice,” Jaskier slurs. His eyelids flutter but stay closed. 

“I’m not nice! I’m _angry_. What the fuck were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all? Humans die from infection as easily as a sword to the gut, do you have any idea how weak macerated skin is? Like an overripe plum, Jaskier. A rotting plum! Cough too hard and you’ll split open.”

“So don’... me laugh,” Jaskier mumbles. He starts snoring. 

“Idiot,” grates Geralt, and so very carefully lifts Jaskier's hands one after the other to pat dry.

Jaskier doesn’t wake again as Geralt rolls him off the damp towels. The bedsheets are rank so Geralt strips those around him, spreads more towels on the bare mattress and fetches a light sheet to drape over him. All Geralt wants to do is crawl in beside him but Jaskier needs heat and air for his skin to dry out as quickly as possible. Trapped sweating in Geralt’s arms won’t help. 

Cleaning up might. The less filth around the less chance infection will set in if Jaskier’s skin splits despite his efforts.

Pulling the bedroom door shut to keep in the heat, the first thing Geralt does is open the windows to the fresh air. He checks on Jaskier every fifteen minutes but it seems they’re well past the vomiting stage. Small mercies. 

As dawn nears Geralt snuffs the candles in batches, keeping the temperature balanced as best he can. He changes the towels and sheets once more when he checks Jaskier over again for open sores. Around the calluses on his hands there are a few small wounds that’ll heal quickly on their own, though he rubs a bit of ointment into them just in case. Jaskier’s lucky his calluses didn’t slough off completely and leave his fingertips so much raw meat. 

By midafternoon Jaskier has woken twice, pissed once into a bucket, and gained more colour. The usual damp places on a body are slower to recover but that’s easy enough to deal with by making sure Jaskier changes position frequently and fresh towels are tucked where they're needed. 

Geralt spends the rest of the day alternating between meditating, caretaking, and telling Jaskier off, in that exact order. 

Shortly after midnight the sound of Jaskier sitting up brings Geralt out of his meditation in the bedside chair. He reaches out automatically to steady Jaskier, who startles away and stares at him with wide, blood-shot eyes. 

“You came back,” Jaskier croaks, and falls over sideways.

Geralt braces his elbows on his knees, cradles his head in his hands. Dealing with the drowners had been less harrowing than this.

*

Jaskier wakes with a mouth as dry as the Korath desert, more aches than a retired prostitute, and the assembled armies of the Northern Kingdoms marching through his head. He needs to piss so badly he honestly wonders how his mouth could be so dry when his back teeth are floating.

Wordlessly, Geralt points at a bucket near the bed. Jaskier flushes a deep, hot red as he makes use of it. 

“So, ah,” Jaskier begins. 

Geralt, arms folded intimidatingly, gives him a flat look and says, “I’m furious with you.”

“M-me?” Jaskier squeaks. “Me? You’re—” his voice goes up an octave “—you’re furious with _me_?” and he winces, his vision swimming. He sits back carefully, breathes slowly. His head hurts so much. 

“Yes.” Geralt hands him a cool, wet cloth. “You’re an idiot. Did you stop to think for one moment what it would’ve done to me to come home— to get back only to find you’ve accidentally killed yourself over some spoiled, soft-headed aristocratic tart?” 

Jaskier scrunches his eyes shut. The last few—several?—days are a blur. He remembers throwing a fit over his ruined plans and knows with certainty that Geralt had left without the intent to return. Yet here Geralt is. What he doesn’t remember is exactly where that obviously false certainty had come from, or… much of anything else, really. 

He _is_ fairly sure he should apologize for dropping the basket of pastries onto Geralt’s foot, but he can’t dismiss the nagging feeling that Geralt has something much, much worse to apologize for first. It’s all very confusing. 

“I’m very confused,” he tells Geralt. 

Geralt sighs. He pours two glasses of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and hands one to Jaskier. “Drink it slowly. Small sips.”

Jaskier might have an easier time of leaping over the moon right now. With Geralt watching him like a hawk, he takes several quick sips; Geralt’s eyes narrow. He sighs but slows down, deliberately moving the glass away from his mouth to make a show of swallowing after every teeny tiny drink. 

The sarcasm is lost on Geralt, who nods approvingly. 

With not much to do, Jaskier’s mind wanders. A drop of wine might make it easier to think; hair of the dog and all that. Though he’s not too sure there’s much wine to be had considering his sorry state. Thinking about the wine leads to thinking about the tarts again, which leads to wondering why Geralt’s so upset about those going soft and spoiled when he hadn’t even wanted them in the first place. 

There’s something important right there, he’s right on the cusp of it—

“A note came,” Geralt says, “with details about a contract.”

The drowners, Jaskier thinks. The ones he heard about from Aalis, who has a sister up the river in Foam, who in turn had heard a witcher was in Oxenfurt.

Geralt goes on about the contents of the note, glossing over his reasons for leaving right away but since it arrived the night of the Pastry Incident Jaskier can figure that much out on his own. The hunt itself is a convoluted masterpiece that even Geralt’s lackluster storytelling can’t dim, especially when it comes to the involvement of Wojciech’s crew. Those four have a reputation better suited to wild outpost teenagers than respected Oxenfurt scholars, though no one can refute their genius. Average-seeming Tostig Dashiell Venesmarais is especially notorious. 

At the end of it all Geralt goes to refill the pitcher, leaving Jaskier with a moment to think. Not that it does him much good; his head is still a painful jumble. He searches and searches for something to say. 

If he’d found anything, he would’ve forgotten it right away when Geralt comes back, perches on the edge of the chair, and says, “I didn’t want to go with you because I hate it. I _hate_ it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier widens his eyes as much as he can to keep the sudden flood of tears from falling. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and it feels like there’s a mountain sitting on his chest, but he nods. 

“I didn’t come here to keep you from your entertainment,” Geralt goes on. “You’re annoying enough as it is, and if the gods have any mercy at all I’ll never learn the heights you could reach if you didn’t have some sort of event every other evening.”

“Hey,” Jaskier rasps.

“I ask one thing.”

Geralt doesn’t ask for things. Jaskier sits up straighter, wincing when his head throbs.

“The next time someone breaks your foolish heart, wait for me.”

Jaskier screws his face up in bewilderment. Geralt takes him to task for not making sense all the time, which at this particular moment seems completely unfair. Geralt is currently definitely not making sense far more than he’s ever not made sense. 

“Forgive me for misunderstanding your intent for the winter,” says Geralt, rising. He leans over to press a kiss to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “Rest now. I’ll make a stew for when you’re able to eat.”

Utterly gobsmacked, Jaskier sits and stares at the closed door. Trying to arrange his thoughts is like pushing boulders uphill; the moment he thinks he has a grasp on one, another starts to roll away, and the second his attention slips, the first one threatens to at the least bowl him over, at the worst squish him flat.

He’s missing something important, he knows it. He runs through his assumptions one at a time, taking them out to pour over like a jeweler with a loupe. That Geralt didn’t enjoy _any_ of the gatherings is disappointing—he tried so hard to get a nice variety and he can’t quite believe the festival-like feast with trick horse riding and that one very remarkable contortionist was such a miss. Geralt had commented on it for days afterward. 

Whatever Jaskier’s impressions, he can’t deny what he’s just been so clearly told. Geralt _isn’t_ enjoying wintering together. It would in fact seem that he’d be much happier left to his own devices for the most part except to take a few meals and spend a few nights together. Probably more of the latter than the former, because if there’s anything Jaskier is absolutely without a doubt one hundred percent sure of, it’s that Geralt damn well enjoys it when they fuck. 

So, Jaskier thinks as he edges cautiously off the bed, if fucking every day, multiple times a day, is what makes Geralt’s winter pass in a cloud of bliss, then that’s what they’ll do.

But first a quick bath, and maybe some of that stew if it’s ready.

*

Word from the interior is that spring came early this year, bringing with it the chance for an early planting. Of course this is the one winter Jaskier isn’t eager to see end.

He opens his eyes to the faint brush of cool air and Geralt sliding back into bed. 

“It’s too early,” he says, scooting back into Geralt’s solid warmth. He’s not sure if he’s talking about the morning or spring’s arrival—probably both even though he has no idea what time it is—but either way Geralt hums his agreement and drapes an arm low over Jaskier’s hip. Fingertips stroke a slow, mesmerizing rhythm in the crease of his thigh.

“One more week,” Jaskier says, the same thing he said at the beginning of last week. He parts his thighs to let Geralt’s hand slip between. “The ground’s still frozen, most of the marshes too. The creepy crawlies are hibernating.”

“I don’t want to talk about that when my hand is on your cock,” Geralt says. 

“It’s not— _ooh_. Okay.” Jaskier swallows thickly and waves a hand. “Carry on.”

Monsters are not a subject suitable for pillow talk, but apparently it’s just fine to discuss over eggs and toast. Geralt listens patiently to all the reasons Jaskier lists in favour of staying in Oxenfurt for just a little while longer, nods at several key points, and says, “No.”

Jaskier slumps over his empty plate. “Why not? No, wait, don’t say it.” He clears his throat dramatically and lowers his voice to a gravelly growl. “To walk the Path is to do so even when there’s a hot, young, incredibly talented troubadour in your bed.”

Geralt snorts a laugh. “And my bedroll.”

“Fine,” Jaskier whines, “fine, fine, _fine_. Roach has probably grown fat and happy like the rest of us over the winter. I guess it’s time she gets back to work.”

Leaning back, Geralt pats his full belly. Aside from a slight, miniscule, completely unnoticeable unless measured to the millimeter change in muscle definition, he looks exactly the same as always. 

Give it three weeks on the road and Jaskier’s pleasantly rounded bottom will turn lean again, which is a terrible shame. It’s been very nice having more for Geralt to grab.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Jaskier gets up to deal with the dishes. “How long until we go?”

“How long will it take you to pack?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Even after months fixing this and that Geralt has no idea what goes into maintaining a home. There’s a handful of students he’d trust to keep the place standing while they travel, so he supposes he should snatch up one of those before they find a better deal. 

“Three days,” Jaskier says, knowing full well Geralt will counter with a grunted _two_. He whines about it so Geralt doesn’t suspect a thing when he finally agrees.

Midsummer finds them in the Dol Angra region north of Toussaint, combing the valley for what Geralt thinks is a mutant warg. Despite the obvious differences—far less people and elves, for one—the susurrus of tall grasses all around them reminds Jaskier of Upper Posada. He’d blame this strange feeling on nostalgia if it hadn’t been dogging his heels for weeks now. 

Aside from following their first winter spent together, everything is the same this summer compared to the last, which is no different from the one before that, or the one before _that_ , on and on for years. If it weren’t for an acute awareness of the winter, he could easily mistake this summer for any other.

Which begs the question, exactly what is it he’s so acutely aware of? 

Sometimes he thinks about asking Geralt if he feels anything… different. But then Geralt will ask different _how_ , and since Jaskier won’t have a thing to tell him, he’ll just snort and go back to doing whatever it is he’s doing at the time. 

It’s driving Jaskier mad. 

“We’ll rest here tonight,” Geralt says, leading Roach to a stand of trees barely half a mile wide. “Mutant or no, wolves hunt after dusk this time of year. Better to be settled in than risk crossing paths when it’s hungry.”

“Good, good,” Jaskier says, distracted. He starts picking through the underbrush for firewood close to where Geralt clears space for the tent. A lot of times in the summer they don’t bother. This year, though, Geralt pitched it more often than not. 

Jaskier marks that down on his mental list of things that have sort of changed but not really. 

Supper is vegetable soup and bread that’s still mostly soft. The moon is close to full—the main reason the contractor blamed a werewolf and why Jaskier is very happy Geralt disagrees—with the stars peeping out one after the other in the clear sky. It’s peacefully, endlessly beautiful. And almost entirely ruined by this unknown, unnamed thing twisting up his insides. He huffs irritably. 

“You could have stayed in Rastburg,” Geralt says mildly. 

“And miss all of this?” Lying on his back outside the tent, Jaskier raises both arms spread wide to the sky. “Never.”

“Never is a long time.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lift. That’s a tone he rarely hears outside of Geralt hunkered down talking his way aloud through a situation, piecing together clues and evidence. But not only the tone makes it seem an odd thing to say all of a sudden. “Feeling a bit maudlin, love?”

“...not maudlin.”

Pushing up on his elbows, Jaskier twists around to look at where Geralt sits closeby, cross legged on the grass. Geralt is not a man of many expressions, even less one of nuance. Still, it’s rare these days that Jaskier can’t read his mood. That he can't right now is more than a little unsettling. 

“It’s been a long day,” Jaskier says, grasping for a cause, “and even witchers get tired eventually. Shall we turn in?”

“Hm,” says Geralt, and goes about his final checks for the night. 

Jaskier meanwhile crawls into the tent and fusses with the bedrolls. They didn’t bring many blankets, just a couple in case of rain, and between the tent and Geralt it’ll be more than warm enough to go without. He’ll hardly need his clothes, either, so those he shucks and folds before sprawling naked across the bedrolls.

Geralt’s eyes flash in the split-second pause as he ducks into the tent. 

Whatever these feelings plaguing Jaskier combines with the mood Geralt’s in to lend itself to slow kisses and wandering hands. They’re both fully hard by the time Geralt sheds the last of his clothes, sweat gathering lightly and a familiar sensation where they press against one another. Typically Jaskier’s impatience would get the better of them at this point—Geralt can go several times in close succession and Jaskier so enjoys to push and push and _push_. 

The air inside the tent is tangible and close like sinking into bathwater. Geralt kneels above him, strands of hair tickling his face. Big, warm hands stroke down his sides, curve under his ass. Grinning, he lifts his legs around Geralt’s waist and hikes his hips up.

Geralt groans softly—such a sweet sound that is, it makes Jaskier’s blood burn. Thick fingers dig into his ass, spread the cheeks for Geralt’s cock to rub against his crack. 

Geralt freezes.

Jaskier blinks dazed eyes open. “Wha—”

Geralt is up on one knee, head tilted as he listens. Jaskier can’t hear a damn thing aside from his own ragged breaths. He tries to muffle them, tries to slow the rapid beat of his heart so Geralt can hear. 

“Stay here,” Geralt orders, and jams his feet into his boots. He scoops up his sword as he rolls up and out of the tent, then darts off into the dark. 

Jaskier sits up slowly, fixes his wide-eyed gaze on the tent flap. He can't imagine what in all the Spheres could drive Geralt out naked into the woods and running off like that without his _pants_ , let alone his armour.

No matter how hard he strains he still can’t hear anything, not even the wind. The tent quickly grows stifling but he’s afraid to move, won’t dare risk lifting the flap and bringing some nightmarish horror down upon him. He wracks his brain for comfort but no, he’s never seen Geralt react like that. 

How uttery goddamn terrifying. 

Soon he’s glad for the trapped heat. He can’t stop shivering but the blankets are still tied in neat rolls and he’s really very sure he couldn’t move now if he wanted to. Nothing short of immediate threat or Geralt’s voice will budge him. 

Neither comes. The minutes drag hellishly by. Geralt’s been gone far too long. After all this time, Jaskier knows well enough how long is too long. He’s stayed behind dozens of dozens of times before and never been so frightened. Sometimes he doesn’t even _worry_ , puttering at his songs and keeping food warm for Geralt’s return even though Geralt doesn’t care what he eats after a fight as long as it’s moderately digestible and there’s a lot of it.

Jaskier draws his knees up, wraps his arms tightly around them. He’s going to run through three short, easy songs in his head, picturing the chords, and if Geralt isn’t back by the time he’s done, he’ll….

He doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

Thank all the gods above and below he doesn’t have to figure it out. He hears Geralt rasp his name and he scrambles for the tent flap, shoving it aside with a dagger he doesn’t remember grabbing clenched in his fist. 

Awash in moonlight, Geralt stands over the cold ashes of their fire. Broken bits of bushes are tangled in his hair. Great swaths of dirt darken his chest and thigh like he’d rolled in it. Blood shines wetly on the steel sword in his grip. Four black gashes angle across his side from flank to ribs, blood-smeared but dry. 

“Sweet Melitele’s divine cunt,” Jaskier whispers, standing slowly. “Are you— Geralt, what happened?”

“Warg,” Geralt grates, “shoulder,” and drops his sword. 

Jaskier dives back into the tent for Geralt’s pack. “Is it dead? Fuck, sit down— Sit!” As Geralt folds silently to the ground, Jaskier’s breath hisses through his teeth. The bite is twice the span of Geralt’s hand, ragged near his shoulder blade and fading to lighter punctures near his throat. His back is streaked with blood; more seeps sluggishly from the wound.

Shaking wretchedly, Jaskier cleans it as best he can, forcing more blood to flow freely and wash away the dirt, then digging a cloth soaked with spirits into raw flesh. Every scrap of the day's warmth is gone. His stomach churns as Geralt bears it all without a sound.

“I—” Jaskier’s throat clicks. “I thought you’d gone mad, streaking away like you did.”

Geralt gives a small, quiet laugh. 

“I hope you realize you’ve done quite the number on my feelings,” he goes on, over-generous with the salve but hardly caring. He wraps a bandage under Geralt’s arm and across his chest, looping up over his shoulder and back again, gentle and firm. “Can you imagine? Offering your ass up to a man one moment and watching him flee naked into the night the next. I might never recover.”

Geralt catches his hand after he ties off the bandage. “It sounded… sick. Wrong. I couldn’t let it get any closer.”

Jaskier sinks to his knees to look at the claw marks on Geralt’s side. They’re wide but shallow and probably don’t need doctoring. He presses a kiss to Geralt’s dirty knuckles and tends to it anyway. “Was it like you thought? A mutant.”

“A failed one. It wouldn’t have survived much longer.”

“From what the healer said it would’ve taken a lot more people with it first.”

Geralt rumbles wordlessly. He’d put down a rabid wolf—worse, one twisted and corrupted by ill-intent, impossible to save and a mercy to end, and still his guilt is palpable. No matter how many songs Jaskier writes or how far they spread, he doubts anyone will ever realize a witcher’s true calling is to save lives, not end them. Given no choice Geralt won’t hesitate, but monster or man his first instinct is always compassion. 

Sometimes Jaskier thinks it's no wonder witchers are a dying breed. If only he could show others how easy it is to love one.

Jaskier’s hand stills. The grass presses uncomfortable lines into his knees. He looks up into Geralt’s golden, slit-pupiled eyes. The moon turns white hair silvery bright. Dirty and bloodied, naked in the grass save hastily laced boots, and grieving for a life pointlessly lost, Geralt is beautiful. 

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers. That’s what this feeling is. This is what’s so different even though nothing has really changed at all. “I love you.”

Geralt’s smile is warm and wry.

“No,” Jaskier insists, “I _love_ you.” 

Obviously he’s loved Geralt for years now. He values his friendship like no one else’s, adores his sneaky sense of humour and surprisingly soft heart. Even his moodiness isn’t so bad, and most of the time his grumpy face isn’t actually all that scary despite the sound of teeth chattering and knees knocking in his wake. Jaskier’s life without his companionship would be so much lesser in every way imaginable.

That silly smile is still on Geralt’s face. “I know,” he says.

“No, no, no.” Jaskier knuckles at his eyes and makes a strangled noise of frustration. “Listen to me, Geralt: I love you. Like a flower loves the sun, or a fish loves the ocean. Of course I love you. But I _love_ you.”

Suddenly, a frightfully sobering thought barrels right into Jaskier’s heart, turning wonderfully molten realization to cold lead. Geralt _knows_. For how long did he suspect? Since when did he know for sure? Why didn’t he say something? Doesn’t he feel the same?

...does he not feel the same?

“Fuck,” Jaskier croaks. He covers his face with his hands. “Shit. _Shit._ ”

The sound of an indrawn breath terrifies him more than waiting for Geralt to return. He shrills wordlessly to cut off anything Geralt might say. 

Breathing too fast Jaskier holds up his hands, placating. “It’s alright— Well, no. It sucks worse than an underpaid, overworked whore, actually, which is coincidentally also no fun at all for anyone involved. But it’s— I’ll—” He yanks at his hair miserably. “Can we pretend I didn’t say anything? Everything is lovely just the way it is. 

In fact, it’s fabulous! Isn’t it? I lo— like it very, very much and so do you. I know you do, you scamp, don’t try to tell me otherwise. We’ll just forget all that and—”

“No.”

Jaskier’s voice dies on a squeak.

“No,” Geralt says. His face is a mask. “This has been too long coming.”

Jaskier’s mouth works but no sound comes out. His thoughts are a useless scatter. When Geralt tells him to get in the tent, he numbly goes. Nothing seems to be working right. The ground seems too far away and too close at the same time, never where he thinks it should be. The water skin Geralt pushes into his hands feels unreal. 

This is so much worse than the first and only time he tried that accursed white powder. Fun is fun, he won’t begrudge anyone their diversions, but that entire night was one big putrid pile of slimy basilisk shit never to be repeated.

“Lie down,” Geralt says. “You’re cold.”

“I’m not.” He is. “What— What now?” 

Losing Geralt won’t kill him, he knows that. But it’ll hurt like nothing in his life ever has or ever will again. Should it be a clean break, swift and sudden? Or should he ease away slowly, salvage what he can? 

Maybe they could move on from this mistaken confession and be what he always thought they were. Obviously Geralt had no problems maintaining that fiction despite knowing what he didn’t. Casually sharing Geralt’s bed is better than not sharing it at all, isn’t it?

The world shifts another step out of sync when Geralt asks, “What do you want?”

Surprisingly, the answer to that is easy: He wants exactly what he already had and a little more besides. But if Geralt doesn’t— “It’s not that easy.”

Geralt’s hands go open and loose on his thighs like a shrug. “Isn’t it? I’ve done many things. This is the first time I’ve been in love.” He frowns lightly. “I think.”

_In love._ Sudden warmth floods through Jaskier’s frozen blood. When Geralt said he knows, he meant he _knows_. He’s known for a long while already. All this time he’s been waiting for Jaskier to catch up, and… 

“...wait just a minute. You _think_?”

“Almost sure of it.”

Strength leaves Jaskier in a rush; he collapses onto the bedrolls, curled on his side with both hands covering his face. He's laughing, and crying, and he doesn’t move when Geralt settles carefully down beside him, doesn’t peek between his fingers when he feels Geralt draw close. There’s so much to talk about. So much that needs to be said. He doesn’t know where or even how to start. 

He gasps, “This isn’t how I imagined falling in love.”

Geralt hums noncommittally. 

“No, no, _no_. No one would ever dare dream of this mess and call it a declaration of love. I don’t _believe_ you.”

Silence, then Geralt admits, “I never bothered to imagine it."

Jaskier's voice catches and his hands fall. For a very long time he watches Geralt watching him. Such a short time ago they'd lain here exactly like this, and it hadn't been the same at all. For all things that change, Jaskier thinks. 

“I suppose it could be worse," he says, reaching up to flick a leaf from Geralt's tangled hair. He tucks a twisted chunk behind one ear, lets his hand rest softly against Geralt's cheek. His heart has never felt so full. “Even if you are wretchedly dirty more often than not.”

“Love requires sacrifice, or so I’m told,” Geralt says seriously, his eyes closing as Jaskier’s hand drifts down to curl against his neck. “It’s your turn.”

“ _My turn?_ ”

“Mm,” says Geralt. “I’ve waited long enough.”

_And whose fault is that?_ Jaskier very carefully doesn’t say. Regardless of any argument he could put forth up to and including Geralt’s only recently broken silence on the subject, he has the sinking suspicion he'll end up the one with the blame. 

“Fine," Jaskier sniffs haughtily, "you win. Wait no more. I'll draw you the first bath when we return home."

Geralt’s mouth quirks. “Doesn’t sound like much of a sacrifice.”

Fingers soft in Geralt’s hair, Jaskier pulls him in until their foreheads touch and the space between them grows hot. The magic that lies hidden inside Geralt rises gently in a warm, bubbling tide. 

“Not even a little bit,” Jaskier allows, grinning even as his mouth is taken in a kiss that begins leisurely, becomes slowly harder and more demanding. He opens to it and goes willingly as they roll, Geralt pulling him up to spread out over his bulk. They fit together perfectly and it grows slick between them as they move, an unhurried drag of skin against skin. 

Jaskier lifts up with hands braced on Geralt’s shoulders, looks down into the shadows and then at Geralt's pleasure-soft face. From the sounds caught deep in Geralt’s chest, the eager hitch in his breathing, he could come easily just from this. 

It would be incredible to see, amazing to feel, but it wouldn't be enough. Like Jaskier, he'll want more. He'll groan and sweat but grit his teeth and hold Jaskier steady as he sinks inside slowly and sweetly. He’ll come again with Jaskier riding him, roll them over and let Jaskier push into him in turn. They’ll fuck, they’ll make love, they’ll leave each other filthy and aching and satisfied.

Then, when he holds Jaskier close as the shaking fades, he’ll let himself be held in return, welcome tender kisses, listen and laugh at Jaskier’s silly, orgasm-dazed praise. He’ll let Jaskier fall asleep sprawled out on top of him and when the tirade of complaints starts up in the morning about the mess, he’ll throw a wet cloth at Jaskier’s face and grin unrepentantly all through Jaskier’s sputtering.

Everything will be as wonderful as it has been for the last sixteen years—nearly half of Jaskier’s marvelous life—and a little more besides. 

No, loving Geralt isn’t much a sacrifice at all.

*

End

**Author's Note:**

> I did not entirely die editing this. Just mostly. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@bluesoaring](https://twitter.com/bluesoaring) and tumblr [bluesoaring](https://bluesoaring.tumblr.com/)!


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